


Hope is the thing with feathers

by huddleofneurons



Category: Bomb Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddleofneurons/pseuds/huddleofneurons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic I wrote in between seasons one and two of Bomb Girls. Now AU. "It’s always been cold on the factory floor, but after Kate leaves – was taken away, Betty reminds herself – it seems colder, more relentless somehow. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope is the thing with feathers

01.

It’s always been cold on the factory floor, but after Kate leaves – was taken away, Betty reminds herself – it seems colder, more relentless somehow. These are the things Betty allows herself to notice. Someone’s already moved in across the hall, some sprightly dark-haired girl with a blank, pointed face that hurts to look at (because she’s not, can never be, Kate). In the off moments, when the smell of cordite plagues her nostrils and the double shift has given a hazy glaze to the edges of Betty’s vision, she stands in front of Kate’s room with a cigarette and  _waits_.

She doesn’t think about how long it’s been (two months and three days). She doesn’t think about how the pictures in her top drawer have gotten dog-eared (pressed against her chest as she tumbles into sleep). She doesn’t even think about how, somewhere in this misbegotten country, Kate might be dreaming about her too (all sweetfaced and fretful, the kind of thing that gets to a girl’s head).

_Don’t give up hope_ , Gladys always says, indefatigably – unflappable as usual. There’s a kind of tired persistence to her now that James is gone. Even the smallest battles take on an exaggerated importance:

_Hope_ , Betty says to herself as she thinks.  _Yes, that._

 

02.

She’d even went to see Leon at the club – a few days after, when the bruises faded and the simple task of breathing hurt less.

_She’s gone for good, Leon_. The words sounded thick and clumsy. A little desperate, even.

_I know_ , he’d said. It made her feel foolish. He offered her a seat next to him on the piano bench; there was something like pity in his gaze that made her want to bolt, but she took it anyway. It felt good to sit.

_She’ll come back in her own time_ , Leon said.

Betty shrugged sadly, ran her hands over a few keys. Their familiar tinkle was somehow less reassuring in Kate’s absence.

_In the meanwhile, don’t suppose you can sing like Church Mouse, can you?_ he’d asked.

_You gotta be kidding me_ , she said, smiling. Leon laughed; they laughed together, a sad duet. Betty stopped herself, her gaze stuck on the empty stage. She felt like a record player untethered from its tune, spinning aimlessly in the emptiness.

 

03.

Betty called in every favor she was owed and then some, the first few weeks. She had to stop herself from beating the photographer senseless; the second time she returned to pay him a visit – his souvenirs still fresh from the first – he told her what he knew of Kate’s father.

_He has a silver trailer – I think they move around a lot_ , he’d said, wary-eyed, split lip still trembling slightly.  _He brought two boys in with him, and I think his wife was in the car. After they got her, I think he said they were moving North for a few days._

_You sure?_  Betty asked, her gaze narrow.

_That’s all I know, I swear it_ , he replied, fiddling with his camera. She kicked the tripod over and hopped on the first train north.

Apparently, finding an itinerant, zealous preacher was harder than she expected. Betty stopped in diners, queried the locals using every piece of information at her disposal: crazy preacher, red-headed daughter, silver trailer. Even when a patron had recognized Betty’s description –  _voice like an angel, she had_ , they’d say about Kate – no one knew exactly where the family had gotten off to. They could be anywhere.

Sometimes, Betty would slink into a booth, order a cup of coffee and spend half a morning that way, lost in thought in some nowhere town, an hour or two’s train ride from home. Other weeks, she was relentless; she’d comb the city streets until she half expected the fire department and the better part of City Hall to chase her off.

Each week, however, gave the same result: a hazy trail – two weeks ago here, a month ago there – for her notebook, an ache that remained until she’d rest her head against the pillow, heart humming softly and out-of-tune.

After all, Kate was still out there. Somewhere.

 

04.

Betty spent Christmas with Gladys, who in turn had brushed off family obligations and (of course) supplied the champagne. Neither felt much like celebrating, but Betty at least was glad for the company. Gladys had pulled up in front of the boardinghouse – James’s Packard always swerved slightly with her at the wheel – and they spent the better part of fifteen minutes trying to shut the top when it came undone, with callused and shivering fingers.

Gladys parked near the beach, despite Betty’s protestations. ( _It’s not that I’m afraid_ , she’d said,  _I just don’t trust_ — to which Gladys responded,  _We’re staying put_  and that was that.) The surf was rough, but the sky, at least, was a hopeful blue.

_To new allies_ , Gladys said as they clinked glasses. Her voice was somber and far-off, but there was a hint of a smile.

_How right_ , thought Betty. Gladys had been more than an ally in the weeks following Kate’s departure – hell, she had been a real friend, plain and simple. Betty spent most of her days off on one train or another, blurs of countryside surrounding her; sometimes, she’d take the overnight back, dash in Monday morning, take sleep where she could. Gladys kept Lorna off her back during those early-week shifts, and always, always asked if there was any news. She’d even offered to cover the train fare, once – Betty’s breezy reply ( _No thanks, Princess_ ) both quieted the impulse and solidified them as friends.

Later, when the champagne had run dry, Glady’s giggles echoed through the Packard with their effervescence. Worry didn’t suit her; it didn’t suit any of them. Betty was glad, at least, for the respite.

_But what will you do, you know, do in bed?_  Gladys asked after a moment, wide-eyed and strangely serious.

_Gee whiz, Princess_ , Betty replied, though it wasn’t as if the thought had gone unconsidered.

Gladys grabbed the bottle from Betty’s hand and tipped it back unceremoniously.  _I’m not a virgin, and anyway, who says women can’t talk about these things? Men do_ , she said triumphantly. Everything seemed a brave new world to Gladys. Perhaps there was something in that to envy, though Betty would surely never admit it.

They argued on the way back to the boardinghouse.  _We are so not talking about this_ , said Betty, whose hands sternly gripped the wheel. She played the chauffeur grudgingly.

_Aww, c’mon, you know I think she’s damn cute._

_She doesn’t even like me like that, anyway_ , Betty protested, eyes ratcheted forward while Gladys sat beside her, bright-eyed and with folded arms.

_She called you her hero. You’ll be a real Casanova when she gets back._

_If_ , Betty corrected.

_When._

 

05.

It is three months and eight days when Betty catches up with fate. She hasn’t slept a wink – the moon hung low, streaming through the window on the overnight train – but there’s promise in the air, cut-grass and the smell of early Spring. These are the things she notices immediately. She hangs her coat over one arm, bristles at the sea breeze;  _it’s probably a lake_ , she thinks, letting a cigarette steady her. These days she fights her own battles, U-boats or no.

She nearly burns herself when she spots it: the silver trailer, red-headed daughter, voice like an angel. Betty’s all the way across the street and out of danger, and still her heart feels like exploding – like someone’s just dropped enough amatol to set the whole street ablaze.

Kate is huddled over an older woman, helping her back to the trailer with two paper sacks tucked under her arm. Even from a distance, Betty can see that there’s a veil of persistence, of softness, etched on her features – she can feel it. Kate’s sweater is threadbare and she’s awful thin, and somehow Betty’s legs know enough not to tumble over themselves, not to sweep her up and envelop Kate in her arms, offer her a coat – a home. At least not yet.

The other woman enters the trailer; _her sadness could fill rooms_ , Betty thinks. Kate is sitting by herself on the steps, clutching her sweater tighter against the breeze. Betty knows what hope looks like; it’s all she sees when she faces the mirror. There’s a tight, stifled feeling in her throat, and she wants to pray but doesn’t quite know how, just holds her breath against the feeling as she walks.

Betty stops when their eyes meet. She’s foolish, reckless; she actually  _waves_. There’s a smile blooming in her, a secret smile, and she just stands there on the pavement, waiting to take the woman she loves home. Waiting for a smile back – a word, a song,  _anything_.

She waits.


End file.
